The Good Part
by threedays
Summary: Just before Sam leaves for college, Dean finds his baby brother in a bar. Drunk. Singing. Where's a camera when you need one?


**NOTES: **Set just before Sam leaves for college. The song is _Wide Open Spaces_ by the Dixie Chicks, in case you can't tell from Sam's butchering of the title. I own nothing, humbly borrow everything.

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><p><strong>The Good Part<strong>

When he finally finds Sam, Dean wishes for all the world he had a camera on him.

"_Wide open spaaaaaaaces … room to make her big mistakes! She needs … neeeeew faces, she knows the highest staaaakes …"_

Sam Winchester – glum, solemn, brooding, eighteen-year-old Sam – is belting out a Dixie Chicks song at the top of his lungs.

Watching his little brother make an ass of himself, Dean feels compelled to mutter _cristo_. But he knows he's not so lucky that this should be a demon possession. No, this is really Sam. The only demon involved is Jack Daniels. Turns out baby brother can't hold his liquor. Nor can he carry a tune.

"_Wide-eyed and grinning, she never tired … but now she won't be coming back with the rest … if these are life's lessons, she'll take thiiiiiiiiis teeeeest, she neeeeeeds …"_

What disturbs him worse – more than his drunk little brother but not as much as the thought of the barstool next to him being empty – is the fact that Sam seems to know all the words to the chick-music currently on the jukebox.

"Dude, how many times have you listened to this song?"

Sam holds up two fingers, wiggles them, adds two, subtracts one. "Thr – four. Three. I think." He blinks at Dean. " 'S a meaningful song, Dean."

"Dude." Despite the pain that's been burning just behind his sternum ever since Sam's college acceptance letter came, Dean can't help but crack half a smile. "You are tanked."

"I've fine." He wavers on his barstool and leans heavily on the shining surface of the bar to keep his balance.

"Sammy –"

"Sssshh –" Sam holds a finger to his lips. "S' the good part, Dean." He waits for a burst of music and then belts into song, twice as loud as before:

"_As her folks drive away, her dad yells, 'check the oil!' Mom stares out the window and says, 'I'm leaving my girl!'…" _Sammy's starting to slur bad and Dean's jaw has gotten unreasonably tight.

When the chorus rolls around again – _she needs wide open spaces,_ _room to make her big mistakes -_ Sam stops singing and closes his eyes. "The good part's over," he sighs.

"That's what I'm afraid of," Dean mutters. Tomorrow he will tease his brother mercilessly. He will clasp a hand to his heart and tell Sam, "I'm leaving my girl!" But tonight he can't do much but stare, eyes empty because if they stop being empty they will fill and this is not how things are done.

Dean knows – has known, grudgingly, for quite some time – that Sam needs space. Needs to go off on his own and make some mistakes and figure out his life – that's just how is brother is. But dammit, _why_ does Sam have to be this way? Why can't he be like Dean, focused on hunting and a cheap good time – numb to the rest of the world?

"Bro, they're gonna figure out you're not of age, you keep acting like this."

"I'm of … I've of … I'm got plenty of age." Sam doesn't seem to know quite where he is, and he seems lost without his song.

"Sam, why can't you –" Dean didn't mean to start talking and now he doesn't want to finish, but of all the things for his drunken brother to notice, Sam is looking at him like he's waiting for the rest of the words to come. Dean rubs his hand up his forehead and looks away. "Aah. Shit! Have another drink, Sammy!" He waves the bartender over, points to Sam's glass and his own.

Sam slides off his barstool and falls sideways into Dean, who is startled but manages to prop up his brother. He places Sam back on the stool. "What're you doing, Sammy?"

" 'S Sam."

"What're you doing, Drunko the Clown?"

"Fuck clowns. I hate clowns." Drunk Sam does not seem to have a language filter like sober Sam. He is trying to stand again and Dean places a hand on each shoulder.

"Dude. Where d'ya think you're going?"

"Jukevox. Juke – jupe – Jubebox."

Dean fixes him with a level stare. "Why?"

"Wide Op'n Spates-es."

Dean continues to stare.

"Wide open – wiiiiide – open – spates-es."

Dean continues to stare.

"Diskie Chicks. Y'know."

Dean continues to stare.

"Will y'play it for me, Dean?"

Dean continues to stare, as if Sammy has asked him to perform a demonic ritual. Or sell the Impala. Or watch a Disney flick.

"Please?" For a minute Sam's bleary, drunken, clueless eyes become Sam's bleary, drunken, _pained_ eyes and he levels a stare back at Dean. Sam's eyes, dammit, his eyes. Look like they do when Sam's sick. When he's hurt.

When he's scared.

"Dammit," Dean mutters. And points at his brother's face. "You owe me." He waves away Sam's dollar and fires up the jukebox with his own.

"You get three plays for a dollar, Sammy, what else you want?" he hollers across the small dive bar.

"Diskie – Dix – Diss – Diss-xie Chicks."

Dean sighs, not patiently. "What else, Sam?"

"Wide Open Spates-es."

Dean closes his eyes briefly in resignation. Then pushes the button for Wide Open Spaces. Once. Twice.

Hits another button third. Because from the look of his baby brother, Sam will sing himself to sleep on the Dixie Chicks. He won't be awake by the time Fade to Black comes on.

"Thanks, bro. Thanks, gonna – gonna miss …" Sam trails off, cheek on his forearm, lips moving with the song but without any voice. _Who doesn't know what I'm talking about? Who's never left home, who's never struck out to find a dream and a life of their own …_

Dean continues to stare.


End file.
